by Alison Levy
“It’s defective,” she said, “but it’s not dangerous. I told it to bite that man.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It was following me around because of something I said—a slip of the tongue—and it ended up following me into that guy’s basement. When things got scary, I told the daemon to bite him to buy us some time. I mean,” she pressed, “you guys handed the daemon to me to monitor its defect, right? If it’s obeying my orders, then the defect can’t be all that bad.”
Mr. Vang looked long and hard at the coat on the floor, as if waiting for it to speak on its own behalf. Suarez maintained a solid expression but shot Rachel an unspoken question with his eyes. Wu looked back and forth between the daemon and Rachel several times before shaking his head and shrugging. The daemon didn’t move.
“Hmm,” said the older man. “If what you say is true, then the daemon can remain under your supervision. Frankly, it will be less trouble for us if it does. We have our hands full with every kind of trouble at the moment.”
“Is that why the office was closed?” Rachel asked.
“Yeah,” Wu chimed in, “what’s the deal? Since when do you guys not answer the phone?”
“I have no answers for you, just as I had no answers for Mr. Reuben, who called us incessantly on your behalf,” Mr. Vang said. “We have an overload of defective daemons, our entire division is being subjected to procedural scrutiny, and then, without warning, our communications went down. Yesterday I would have called it an unfortunate coincidence, but now, with all we’ve heard from the prisoner, I wouldn’t swear to it.” He sighed and shook his head. Rachel noticed beads of sweat at his temples. “Sabotage is quite possible.”
Wu and Suarez exchanged a confused, worried look, the expression of an emotion Rachel shared but was too tired to wear on her face.
“What’s being done about it?” she asked.
“There are . . . procedures in play.”
“There are procedures for this sort of thing?”
“Well . . . no,” Mr. Vang admitted. He threw out his arms in a gesture of exasperation. “We’re making it up as we go at this point. The Notans have procedures for this sort of . . . conspiracy . . . terrorist threat, so we’re adopting their procedures as guidelines.”
“Terrorist?” Miss Morley exclaimed. It was the first time she’d made a sound since this conversation began, probably because Mr. Vang had said “terrorist” in English. “What’s that about?”
“We even have to borrow a Notan word for the concept,” Mr. Vang said in Arcanan.
“That’s gotta be a first,” said Suarez.
“First or last is immaterial when the matter is at hand,” Mr. Vang said with an air of finality. “Well, now that all of this is settled, I’ll leave you in the doctor’s care. Good night.”
He nodded quickly to the three collectors, avoiding eye contact, and then speed-walked out of the room.
Suarez ran both hands through his hair and grumbled wearily under his breath. “Terrorism,” he said. “Can’t be.”
“Terrorism?” Miss Morley poked Rachel’s shoulder to get her attention. “What the hell’s going on?”
“The prisoner said some things that suggest a terrorist group may be behind recent events,” she replied.
“Ah, come on!” said Wu with a wave of his hand. “We’re gonna take the word of a murderer?”
“I’m not,” Rachel said. “I don’t trust anything that comes out of that man’s mouth.”
“But you said he knew things about us,” Suarez pointed out. “You said he knew things about the Arcana.”
“That doesn’t mean there’s terrorism involved,” she said.
“Then how do you explain it?”
“I don’t. I’m not coming to any conclusions based on something that psycho said.”
“Sounds sensible to me,” Wu said.
“Still,” Suarez said, “it’s concerning.”
Wu clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t look so serious,” he teased. “We caught the guy, Wilde’s safe, and the office is open again. It’s all good!”
Suarez folded his arms over his chest and stared at the floor, his face a haze of deep thought.
Wu rolled his eyes, looked at Rachel, and shrugged. “I think we’re done for the night, Wilde. We’re just getting underfoot at this point. We should probably dash.”
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks, guys. For everything.”
“No thanks necessary,” Suarez said. Clearly still lost in contemplation, he lifted his head just long enough to offer up a brisk nod before turning to the door. “Miss Morley. Later, Wilde.”
“Hey,” Wu added over his shoulder as he followed Suarez to the exit, “Benny said we’re meeting at his place for dinner next week.”
“I’ll be there,” Rachel said.
“Can’t wait to hear this story from your end. See you soon, Wilde.”
“Later.”
They left the room one after the other, and Rachel listened to their fading footsteps until they were too far away for her tired ears to follow.
“What was all that about?” Miss Morley asked. “Was that guy your boss?”
“Sort of.” Rachel sighed. “He’s from the Central Office.”
“Sounded like he’s pissed at you. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. He won’t harp on my mistakes if I don’t mention his. Anyway, this is for you.”
She handed Miss Morley the blue box Suarez had given her. It was covered in handwritten labels.
Miss Morley peeled back a few stickers and removed the lid. The box was full of flash drives, CD-ROMS, and other data storage devices. Her eyebrows pinched together as she stared at the box’s contents. “What is this?”
“It’s yours,” Rachel said. “It’s everything we have from the Apep gatekeeper bloodline.”
“So it’s . . . records?”
“Some of it. It’s more files like the ones I brought you before.”
“The diaries?”
“Yeah. Apparently, your ancestors have been keeping records of their lives and their children’s lives for almost as long as they’ve been carrying this gatekeeper mantle. Those diaries you read were written by your distant relatives.” Rachel flipped over the lid of the box, where several scribble-covered stickers overlapped each other. “Not clear how some of it ended up in that psycho’s house—I mean, all of this should have been kept in the records department—but from the look of it, it was shuttled around to a bunch of places.” She scraped back the corner of a sticker. “Looks like it got sent to . . . Barvekaj, which is weird, because that’s where dangerous things—weapons and problematic tech—are stored. Then it went to . . . the Research and Development Department, then to the military, and then to a village in the far west and then to . . . eh.” She tossed the lid aside. “Forget it. It’s back where it belongs. Your ancestors wrote these, and someone converted them to digital form. The box belongs with you.”
“My ancestors?” Miss Morley repeated. Her voice was hushed, breathless. Her dark eyes shifted between doubt and hope. “You’re sure? There’s no mistake?”
“It’s yours,” Rachel said. “It belongs to you and your family.”
Miss Morley pushed around the items in the box with two bandaged fingers. “There are so many,” she murmured.
“That flash drive I brought to you was originally part of this collection. That one memory stick, as it turns out, has the last written records from your ancestors on the west coast of Africa. The last matriarch of that line sent her distant cousins a message about her missing granddaughter, and that message was digitized with the other records. That was probably why that psychopath wanted it—it was the only thing in the box that had any useful information about your branch of the family tree. It was his only hope of tracking you down. Well.” She flinched. “Until I led him to you. Sorry about that.”
“That’s . . . I . . .” Miss Morley’s voice trailed away. After some long moments had passed, she covered her li
ps with her wrapped fingers. A tear dropped into the box, creating a tiny, discolored spot in the blue cardboard.
Startled, Rachel bent her head to better see Miss Morley’s face. Her dark eyes were brimming over with tears. Rachel carefully placed one hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Miss Morley sobbed. “Oh my God, I’m fine. I . . . shit! I don’t like to cry,” she hissed. She swiped at her cheeks and clenched her trembling lips tight together. A strangled cry came from deep in her throat, and she let fall a shower of tears. “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I don’t know.”
Rachel didn’t fully understand why Miss Morley was so overwhelmed but, exhausted as she was, she could appreciate the need for a release. It had been a traumatic evening; they both had wounds—outside and in—that needed tending. Add to that the fact that she had just been reconnected to her gatekeeper heritage, and Rachel could guess that there was a lot going on in her mind.
“That’s okay,” she said. She squeezed Miss Morley’s shoulder and smiled faintly, a smile lacking in comprehension but as full of compassion as she could make it. “I think it would be asking too much of you to ask that you get a grip on everything all at once.”
Miss Morley nodded without lifting her head. Tears continued to roll down her face, half-hidden by a curtain of her hair. “I don’t know where to begin.” She put one shaking hand into the box and brushed her fingers over the data. “There’s so much stolen history in here that I never dreamed I’d find. It’s so much, and so precious. So many years, so many relatives . . .”
“And so many languages!” Rachel said with another smile. “You’re a linguist! It’s like you’ve been preparing all your life to get this box!”
In the midst of her tears and soft cries, Miss Morley laughed. “I have,” she laugh-sobbed. She gripped the box in her trembling hands as if afraid it would fade away. Her cheeks were soaked with her tears, but in between sobs she smiled and glanced skyward. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for getting me ready for this.” Her face softened, suddenly peaceful. “And,” she said softly, “thank you for today.”
17
CRAWLSPACE
It was late when Rachel finally shuffled through the passageway and up the walk to her house. As she stepped over the nothingness threshold, leaving her long night behind, she was greeted by the buttery glow of the porch light. Despite the pain, she inhaled deeply. An earthy aroma, the comfortable smell of this place, filled her senses. She tilted her head back to see a spread of stars above. There were no familiar constellations in this sky, but the tiny lights were soothing. The job was done. She was done. She could rest.
Her body stiff and aching, she slowly climbed the porch steps. It sucked that she had to let her injuries heal naturally. If she had been injured back home, she would have been patched up in a matter of hours, but since the interdimensional passages were currently sealed, the Arcanan doctors who had treated her were cut off from modern technology and allowed to use only things that would not be seen as unnaturally advanced if discovered by Notans. That was all well and good for security, of course, but it left Rachel in a lot of pain.
Five more months, she thought. Just five more months until I go home.
Pulling herself to the top step, she limped a few steps across the porch and pushed open the door. Behind her, the daemon hopped up the steps; the fabric wrapped around it dragged over the wood as it slouched its way inside. She waited for it to enter and then closed the door. Without hesitation, it shuffled away and out of sight, its old coat softly rustling.
The moment the door clicked shut, she heard Bach call out, “Hey!” from upstairs. He rushed down the steps and greeted her with a too-eager smile that drained her last drop of energy. “Glad you’re back.”
“Yeah?” she muttered, letting the coat draped around her shoulders fall to the floor. “Why?” She headed for the kitchen without waiting for a response.
“Some people came by while you were gone,” he said, following behind her. “They seemed pretty pissed to see me.”
“That’s because you aren’t supposed to be here,” she reminded him.
“I know. They left pretty quick but . . . I didn’t know what to say.”
Rachel started to reach for a glass in the cabinet, but the movement sent a sharp pain through her side; she froze and hissed through her teeth.
Bach snatched the glass from over her shoulder and filled it with water.
“What did you tell them?” Rachel asked tightly, waiting for the pain to subside.
“The truth.” He handed her the glass. “I even threw in a few sight-beyond factoids from their lives to prove it.”
“Good,” she murmured, very slowly lowering herself into a chair. She leaned back, wincing. “I don’t think they’ll come by again anytime soon.”
Bach continued to hover about the room. Though he turned in every direction, his feet marching him from one corner to the next, his eyes kept darting back to her. Suddenly, he blinked, pulled back, and said in a surprised tone, “You don’t look so great.”
“Well, that’s just as well,” she said, “because I don’t feel so great.”
Bach took a seat across from her. “What happened?”
She recounted the events of the evening, beginning with her stakeout of Leda Morley’s office and ending with their discharge from the hospital. Bach listened to every detail, never interrupting and never looking away. While Rachel talked, the daemon wandered aimlessly into their midst. It bumped against the edge of a cabinet, adjusted its course by an inch, and then parked itself under the table. The soft swish of its blood-splattered coat came to an abrupt stop as it ceased all movement and became as still as the table above it.
“How bad’s your damage?” asked Bach once Rachel had reached the end.
“Cracked ribs, concussion, a few lesser injuries,” she told him. “I’m gonna hurt for a while, but it could’ve been much worse.”
“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” He groaned. “I sent you there in the first place.”
“You didn’t know. Besides, it all worked out. We caught the guy, and Miss Morley’s been identified as the missing gatekeeper. I probably wouldn’t have found either one of them without your help.” Holding her breath, she fished a pill sachet out of her pocket. She flicked the two painkillers into her mouth, took a long drink, and then leaned the glass against her heart while she swallowed. “Just don’t expect a thank-you, okay? You helped me finish my work for the week, but you also got my ass kicked. I figure that balances out.”
“Fair.”
A sharp whine broke the air; startled, Rachel looked toward the hallway. A dog—a puppy, really, maybe six months old—lingered just outside the kitchen entrance, poking its black-and-brown head around the corner. Rachel looked at Bach, her eyes narrowed, and the young man smiled sheepishly.
“He was under your house,” he said.
“I know,” she said, her voice sawing into him. “I chose not to bring it in here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was . . . I like dogs. Always wanted one when I was a kid, but my mom said no. Just look how cute he is.” When Rachel continued to glare at him, never glancing at the dog, he slumped forward and mumbled in a grim tone, “Sorry. After you left, I heard him whining under the house, so I gave him the last bite of my burger. I just wanted some company before you threw me out.”
“I wasn’t planning on throwing you out.”
His face shifted into a meld of relief and amazement. “Really? But those people who came here were very clear about the rules—”
“I’m not too thrilled with the Central Office and its rules just now,” she growled. “If they’d done their research properly, I wouldn’t have landed in the hospital. Screw ’em.”
Bach heaved a sigh and collapsed back into his chair, his arms hanging limp from his sides. “Thank God. I didn’t know what I was gonna do.”
“You can stay until the Central Office makes another stink about it,” sai
d Rachel. “They’ll avoid revisiting my situation for a while after they so completely fucked up this case. I think you’ve got a couple months’ leeway.”
Bach lowered his chin, pressed his palms together before his face, and exclaimed, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“But just so we’re clear,” she added, “I’m not feeding you or that animal. The roof over your head doesn’t cost me anything, but I can’t start charging food for two people and a dog. If the Central Office sees that kind of increase in my expenses, it won’t matter how badly they screwed up this last job, they will have my head. If you want to stay, you buy your own food.”
“I can do that,” he assured her. “Just give me a few days and I’ll get it all sorted out.”
The puppy whined again, bobbed his head up and down in the doorway, shuffled his oversized paws back and forth, and glanced from one human to the other.
“What about the dog?” Bach asked. “Can he stay?”
“I guess,” Rachel mumbled. “Just clean up after it and don’t let it lift its leg to anything in the house.”
“Come here, boy,” Bach called. “Come here.”
The puppy yipped with joy and rushed to the man’s side. He gave the daemon a nervous glance, but his new master’s command seemingly overrode that concern. He ducked low and brought his head up, directly into Bach’s palm. The young man rubbed the dog’s absurdly huge upright ears and scratched the back of its neck, drawing blissful groans from the animal.
Rachel rolled her eyes.
“Good boy,” Bach whispered. “That’s a good dog. I think he’s a collie-shepherd mix,” he told Rachel. “Can’t be sure, of course, but he’s got a collie build and these ears look shepherd-ish to me.”
“Looks pretty well fed,” Rachel mused as her eyes swept over the puppy. “Wonder what it was eating all this time.”